Black Tights
by lilidelafield
Summary: A WHAT - IF CHALLENGE story. What if Napoleon had a secret that not even Waverly knew? When Illya is chewed out by Mister Waverly over Napoleon's unexplained absences, he decides it is time to learn the truth. Just what is Napoleon's secret? Where is he going?


What if Napoleon had a secret? Something that perhaps not even Waverly knows about... maybe. What can come of such a deep and dark element to the CEO of UNCLE Northwest?

It had started slowly. Illya was unsure when it must have begun, because as field agents for the U.N.C.L.E, their schedules were frequently all over the place. However, Illya had started to notice that his partner, the CEA Napoleon Solo had a few months earlier, when they were in New York, begun a habit of leaving work at around three in the afternoon for three days in the week, and not returning until around five-fifteen, whereupon he would dive into his paperwork with renewed vigor, and work through until seven or eight o'clock.

Illya had, so far, not asked his partner where he was going and what he was doing for the missing time, and he had also resisted the temptation to follow and find out for himself. After all, he had plenty of secrets himself that nobody knew about, least of all Napoleon, so he figured Napoleon was certainly entitled to _one_ of his own.

That was not to say that Illya was not curious. He _was_ curious. In fact, one might say he was _agog_ to find out what his partner got up to during that time. One of the reasons was that once Napoleon returned from…whatever it was…he seemed physically worn out, but mentally, even more alert and alive than usual, and more than ready to do his own paperwork! If he did not know better, Illya might have suspected that Napoleon had Angelique stashed away somewhere nearby for a regular dalliance; but he knew that it was not so. This new habit of Napoleon's was as regular as clockwork, and only whilst they were in New York. Angelique was not a woman to be tied to any kind of schedule, least of all to an UNCLE agent, even Napoleon Solo.

Things might have continued endlessly had things not come to a head one afternoon in the middle of April. Illya had been debriefing junior agents as Napoleon's deputy CEA and finally having finished the rather tedious paperwork connected with it, had headed down to the commissary for a coffee and a pastry. He was basking in blissful enjoyment with a mouthful of danish pastry when a tap on his shoulder startled him so much he sent a stream of coffee into his lap. He leapt to his feet, cursing in aggravated Ukrainian.

"Sorry Mister Kuryakin, but I spoke to you three times."

Illya looked up into the frightened gaze of young Suzanne deSilva, the newest recruit to the UNCLE, currently acting as general assistant to Lisa Rogers, Mister Waverly's personal assistant. He quickly twisted his scowl into a smile, but clearly with not quite the reassuring look he had been aiming for.

"It is not your fault Miss DeSilva, I was not attending. What do you want?"

"Mister Waverly has been trying to contact mister Solo but without success, and apparently, you left your communicator in your office, sir."

"Did I?" Illya asked, surprised, fishing in his pocket, but the girl was right. He nodded sheepishly. "So I did. I removed my jacket, and left it in the inside pocket. I'll go up and see Mister Waverly right away."

Waverly was clearly annoyed when Illya arrived.

"Where is your partner, Mister Kuryakin? I expect my Chief Enforcement Agent to be available when I need him. I am told he is not even in the building and no one knows where he is. And you, Mister Kuryakin, I even had to send young Suzanne off in search of you because you chose to leave your communicator behind."

"Yes sir." Illya replied, neither explaining nor apologizing. In his experience, offering either of those unsolicited was asking for trouble. Waverly slid a thick file across the table.

"Where precisely is Mister Solo right at this moment?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You are supposed to know his whereabouts at all times Mister Kuryakin. Were you not taught that at survival school? If you have forgotten I could send you both back there for a refresher course."

"Sir." Illya replied, keeping his tone even.

"Well, there is your assignment. You can take it with you. I want you both to leave by eight-thirty this evening. I suggest you locate your partner, and then take care not to lose him again."

"Yes sir."

"Very well. You have your task. Get a move on."

"Sir."

Illya escaped and fled back to his office. It was nearly five and his partner would be back soon at any rate. Sure enough, within a few minutes Napoleon breezed back through the door with the cheery

"Illya!"

He paused at the dark look on his friend's face.

"What is it Illya?"

For answer, Illya threw the mission file to him.

"This, Napoleon. Mister Waverly has just finished chewing me out because you were unavailable. This is our new mission, and we leave in three hours apparently. I haven't read it. I have to change my trousers."

When Illya returned wearing a pair of grey trousers that clashed horribly with his brown jacket, Napoleon had just finished reading the file. He looked up and saw his partner still looked unhappy.

"You want me to tell you where I have been, don't you?"

"I just don't like being shouted at unnecessarily, Napoleon. Wherever it is you are going, you need to take your communicator with you, or leave a contact number or something."

Napoleon shook his head.

"Communicator would not work. No chance to answer the thing even if it did go off. No phones either."

Illya rolled his eyes.

"Napoleon, I appreciate the need for privacy, but the rules that you impressed upon me in the beginning were the vital importance of always being available at the end of a communicator. That, or…"

Napoleon's bottom lip jutted out. He nodded.

"That your partner always knows how to get hold of you. You know, Illya, that is the only thing that challenges me about this job."

Illya nodded.

"I know. Me too. So, how do you want to handle this? You can give me an untruth to feed to mister Waverly another time, but if I cannot get hold of you when I need to…"

Napoleon sighed and nodded.

"I won't tell you, Illya, but next time I go, you can come along with me. You will be free to bring your communicator, so that…"

"Very well, so long as you are certain about this, my friend."

"I am, so long as you swear to me that you will not laugh at me when you find out my secret."

Illya looked genuinely shocked.

"Why would I laugh?"

"When we get back from this mission Illya, you'll find out."

Three weeks later, Illya finally learned Napoleon's secret. Napoleon was dressed in his everyday clothes, but he carried a tote bag with him, which Illya had not seen inside.

They arrived before too long at a private sporting facility, and Napoleon hurried into the cloakroom, asking his partner to wait outside.

Surprised, Illya leaned against the wall and waited, whistling under his breath and wondering what all this cloak-and-dagger business was all about. There was a perfectly good gymnasium back at headquarters. Why pay money to come to a private place like this?

After a moment, Napoleon put his head round the door and beckoned him to come inside. Illya entered and was surprised to find his partner wearing a close fitting black vest and grey sweat pants. Biting his tongue, he followed his partner through a second door and stopped at the sight of a huge room with a mirror covering one entire wall, and a bar to hold on to. Several men and women were milling about, some beginning to do some warm-up exercises. A grin spread across Illya's face as he recognised the scene well enough. The grin became even wider when his partner removed his sweat pants to reveal a pair of thick black tights.

"So, this is where you have been hanging out, Napoleon. Ballet classes?"

Napoleon nodded with dignity.

"I've discovered that ballet has many benefits…" he eyed Illya's grin and groaned. "You promised that you wouldn't laugh!"

"I'm not laughing, my friend." Illya assured him. "George Balanchine, co-founder of the New York Ballet is Russian. There is a lot to be said for it. He has even tried to persuade _me_ to take a few classes to improve my fitness and my mental focus…but I have plenty of opportunities already. Besides, I am allergic to tights."

Napoleon chuckled.

"You are not!"

"As far as _he_ is concerned, I am. It does appear to be working. Since you have been coming to this place, I have not had to do your paperwork nearly as frequently. That is as good a reason as any to keep dancing. Just one thing Napoleon."

"What?" Napoleon paused in the act of walking into the centre of the line. Illya reached into his jacket pocket and brought out his UNCLE mini-camera.

"Mind if I take a picture of you in your gear? It will go down a storm with the UNCLE typing pool!"


End file.
